


Volte-face

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dominance, Kissing, Light Bondage, Love, M/M, Mirrors, Oral Sex, Submission, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2384876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One round of sex unexpectedly leads to another, with Moriarty switching from being the dominant partner to letting Moran take control, all of this while watching themselves in a mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon who requested I write something based on the prompt "Imagine Person A of your OTP fucking B from behind. At first it’s doggie style, but then A pulls B onto their lap and carries them to the other side of the bed where a large mirror is. They continue fucking B, kissing their neck, and ordering them to open their eyes. Bonus if B orgasms at the sight." posted by the tumblr blog OTP Prompts. (Although I did write this I then also went off at something of a tangent

   “Are you afraid of me, Moran?” he asks, his voice soft, almost gentle, as he trails his fingertips along the colonel’s spine.

    Moran’s bare skin is slick with perspiration and he shivers even though the room is warm, crouched there on the bed, his head bowed, his wrists bound to the bedstead.

    Moriarty moves to stand level with Moran’s head, to bend over him, to utter in a low yet clear whisper, “Do I frighten you?” His breath warm against the shell of Moran’s ear as he speaks.

    Moran twists his face around as much as the restraints allow. His sweat-soaked hair falls over his face, strands of it sticking to his forehead as his gaze shifts to rest on Moriarty’s face. He swallows. “Yes sir.”

     “And why is that, hmm?” Moriarty enquires, his voice sing-song melodic, very nearly menacing in its sound, at least to one who does not wholly understand his subtle nuances of intonation and his caprices. “Tell me why, my dove, I frighten you.” He rubs the back of Moran’s neck, just below where the spinal column merges with the head.

     “Because…” Moran pauses, licks his dry lips and lets his gaze dart away for a moment. “Because…” He laughs. “I know you could kill me, if you chose.” Moran has never believed that bravery is an absence of fear; it is the ability to master one’s fears. But then what does that mean for him, one who has deliberately sought out danger – never mind flirting with it he has actively courted it and all but wedded himself to it. Is he then brave or merely self-destructive?

     “And yet this knowledge does seem to be such a powerful aphrodisiac for you,” Moriarty observes with a thin-lipped smile.

     “Never said it was a bad thing, did I?”

     “No, you did not.” Moriarty smiles still but slightly more broadly now as he runs his hand down Moran’s shoulder, curling his fingers around his bicep. Such strength there, yet all contained and controlled; so much at Moriarty’s mercy. How delicious this knowledge is.

    Moran tries to turn his head further to see what is happening as the professor climbs onto the bed behind him.

     “Eyes straight ahead,” Moriarty commands him, giving Moran a light slap on the buttocks, and Moran obeys unquestioningly. “Good boy.” He uses the bolster to prop up Moran’s hips, to angle his backside up and further heighten the sense that Moran is laid out for him and for him alone, lying prone in this somewhat humiliating position merely awaiting his fate and entirely subject to Moriarty’s whims and desires.

    Moriarty hears Moran gasp into the bed-sheets as he begins to work the oil into him, teasing him, tormenting him with light touches, with a single finger at first, only very slowly – far more slowly than Moran needs if this were solely about simply preparing him to be penetrated – working up to two, then taunting him with the two fingers with equal slowness.

     “Please, please, god, sir, please.” Moran is almost babbling as the professor carefully drips in a little more oil and twists his fingers inside his lover. He desperately tries to hump the bolster under him, trying to get a little friction against his achingly hard cock. “Please, please, please, fuck me.”

     “Shhh, shhh.” With his free hand Moriarty rubs the small of Moran’s back with his knuckles, withdrawing his other fingers completely. The touch against Moran’s back is so different, as he rubs slow, soothing circles there, maddening for its intimacy yet its lack of stimulation where Moran truly craves it, and it leaves Moran groaning with frustrated arousal.

    When Moran stills though and goes quiet, Moriarty guides his length into Moran, sheathing himself within his companion’s body. Almost all the way inside, he pauses a moment to allow Moran to adjust to the sensations, guiding him through his momentary tension as his body is so thoroughly breached. Only when Moran lets out the breath he had unwittingly held onto does the professor begin to thrust into him, but still so slowly, so unhurried in his movements.

    As he takes Moran, the colonel presses his forehead into the pillow, then bites down into it to keep from crying out when the pleasure borders on too much. It is always an intriguing sight for the professor, to see Moran so thoroughly come undone under him, but he has to admit that the view is not all that it could be. He glances across the room at the cheval mirror, standing facing the wall. More commonly used only as an aid to dressing himself, still from time to time, well, it can be put to other uses.

    He ceases his movements and withdraws slowly from Moran, who is so very nearly lost that it takes him a few seconds to realise that Moriarty has gone and to glance back questioningly at him.

     “Professor?” Even through his haze of lust there is concern in his voice.

     Moriarty pats him softly on the back to reassure him. “It’s all right; I merely want to change position.” He undoes the rope that binds Moran’s wrists easily, jerking the quick-release knots swiftly undone. This done he slips off the bed and walks around it to place the mirror closer to the bed and to turn it around too so that now their reflection shows in it. “Come here,” he says, and beckons Moran towards him.

    Moran shifts over on the bed, letting Moriarty draw him close, being pulled almost into the professor’s lap as Moriarty gets back onto the bed. He lifts his legs and wraps them around Moriarty’s waist, careful still not to seem too assertive, but showing that he wants the professor inside him once more and as soon as possible.

     “Please, sir,” he begs as Moriarty moves over him. “Please.”

    It takes Moriarty almost no effort at all to re-enter Moran, he is so relaxed and still slick from the oil. As he thrusts into him once more he kisses Moran’s chest, up his neck, over his throat as his skilful movements pull curses and gasps from Moran’s throat.

    Whilst crouched over Moran, inside him, he glances over at the mirror, watching himself taking his lover so firmly, so possessively. It is fascinating to see himself this way, to see himself so thoroughly asserting his dominance over his Sebastian, and to see Moran’s subjugation from another angle, to see him completely in thrall to the professor and his own urges both.

    Only one thing is not entirely to Moriarty’s liking here – Moran’s head has tipped back and his eyes are tightly closed.

     “Sebastian.” He reaches up and grips Moran firmly by the chin. “Open your eyes.”

    Moran responds with an almost drugged-looking slowness, although of course he has no drug in his system, only the chemicals put out by his own body in his state of excitement. He is so close to release he can barely consciously think any more.

     “I want you to see this.” Moriarty twists Moran’s face sideways, so he can see their reflection; so he can see himself naked and sweat-soaked and looking thoroughly debauched; so he can see that delirious faraway look in his own eyes as he gets so close to orgasm; so he can watch himself being fucked, being _owned_ , by the professor, and to see that seems to be suddenly the most erotic thing in the whole world.

     “James!” He comes with a startled cry, calling out the one word he remembers without fail in these moments, clutching onto Moriarty’s back as he spends vigorously.

     Moriarty looks away from the mirror, watching Moran’s face as he climaxes, feeling his lover’s body clenching around his length. It is undignified, base, animalistic even, and yet oh so very intoxicating to see Moran lose all sense of himself because of _his_ actions, and between the mental and physical stimulation of it all he comes himself, spilling inside Moran.

     When it is over Moriarty slumps atop Moran, in a tangle of limbs and sweat-soaked bodies. More than a few minutes like this and the mess will become unpleasant as their release begins to dry on their bodies but for now Moriarty is content to lie like this, his cheek pressed against Moran’s. At first both are breathing hard but their breaths slow soon enough, become steadier, falling into a shared rhythm, as do their heartbeats.

    Moriarty glances over at the mirror again, curious as to what they look like now, and he finds that Moran has apparently had the same idea. Moran grins at him in the reflection as he idly traces patterns on the professor’s back with his fingertips.

     “If your students could see you now.”

     “If they saw me this way I would have to have you kill them.” To his students, indeed towards the majority of the rest of the world, Moriarty is always so very proper, neat in his habits, rather prim even; cultured; well-spoken, and – it has been said from time to time by various others – inhuman.

    But Professor Moriarty _is_ human, for all that this involves certain elements which he regrets – that his body should fail him sometimes; that mind cannot always conquer matter, and that if he pushes himself too hard at times – foregoing nourishment or sleep - he will sooner or later break down under the strain. But to feel affection for another; to desire such sensuality, such intimacy, even though he may not possess precisely all the same sorts of feelings for Moran as Moran does for him, this he cannot despise, not any more. He would not and could not share this with some interloper though. It is not just that the act of intercourse with Moran is highly illegal and he fears exposure; it is not even only that he would feel humiliated, having someone else see him having so lost his composure temporarily. No, though he would be embarrassed at the sight of himself lying there on top of his lover, looking very dishevelled with his hair all tousled, his shirt crumpled and sweat (and a certain other fluid) drying on his skin, being witnessed by another, there is something else too. It is because this is between him and Moran, for them alone, a shared private act of mutual esteem and affection in these moments where Moriarty doesn’t have to be the prim and proper professor; where he does not have to pretend that his regard for Moran stays within strict limits, that they are close but not _too_ close; where he does not have to be the dispassionate, coldblooded creature that the rest of the world has always encouraged him to be, as if men are not allowed to have feelings; to have passions that do not involve sports or killing things.

    He turns his face away from the mirror, back to Moran, to kiss him – almost clumsily – still not wholly understanding why anyone does this, why Moran loves it so, but that Moran does like it so much is still immensely endearing to him. Reason enough then to kiss the colonel softly on the lips even when he is not using the act as another means to convey his dominance over Moran.

     “Do I still frighten you, my dove?” he asks, when the kiss ends.

    Moran laughs again as he lazily caresses Moriarty’s side. “Always.”

    Moriarty flashes him a wry smile. “Because you still know that I could kill you if I chose?”

     “Mm.” Moran’s eyes slip closed again, the post-coital drowsiness beginning to creep over him. If Moriarty does not prod him into getting up to go and wash shortly he will evidently quite contentedly fall asleep still covered in their _secretions_.

     “And yet… _you_ could also kill _me_ , if you chose.” Moriarty says this with perfect nonchalance.

     “Mm, that I could.” Moran opens his eyes again and darts a glance at the professor. “Be a bit of a shame though if I did. I s’pose I’d best not choose to do so then, hmm?”

     “I think that would be for the best.” Moriarty settles his face beside Moran’s again, cheek to cheek. “And in return,” he says softly, close to Moran’s ear, “I suppose I shall choose not to kill you too. It would be such a terrible waste, after all.”

     “Too right.” Moran yawns and closes his eyes again.

     “We had best go and get washed.”

     “In five minutes.”

     “In five minutes you will be asleep.” Moriarty pokes Moran in the chest until he opens his eyes again. “Come on, you can sleep afterwards.”

    Moran thinks about trying to bargain for another couple of minutes, if only in jest, but he doesn’t, knowing of the professor’s dislike of the messier aspects of sex. “If I must.” He allows Moriarty to pull him to his feet, conniving though to ‘accidentally’ stumble forward, so that he falls against the professor and is obliged to wrap his arms around him to steady himself. There he grins up at Moriarty. “Sorry.”

    “And yet I observe that you are not attempting to remove yourself from me,” Moriarty notes with a raised eyebrow.

    “I observe you ain’t trying to remove me either.” Moran encircles Moriarty’s upper body more firmly, pulling them tighter together, so that he may bury his face between Moriarty’s shoulder and neck; so that he can inhale the professor’s scent before pressing kisses up his neck.

    “Are you aiming to go for another round all of a sudden?” Moriarty enquires, gazing straight ahead, trying to pretend that the feel of Moran’s lips brushing over his skin isn’t actually quite pleasant.

    “I wouldn’t mind.” Moran pauses briefly when Moriarty flicks his gaze down to meet Moran’s. “If you wanted to, sir.”

    “I thought you wished to sleep.”

    “I’m awake now.”

    “Even with your stamina, Sebastian, your refractory period cannot possibly be that brief,” Moriarty points out.

    Moran shrugs slightly. “Who said anything about needing to spend right away? Gives us time to… enjoy each other’s company.” He flashes Moriarty a devilish grin.

    Moriarty glances down at him again. “Oh?” he says. “And what precisely did you have in mind?”

   Moran’s hesitation and the brief narrowing of his eyes, both fleeting but definitely there, indicate that up until now he had had no expectation of his flirtation going anywhere, that he was only playfully trying it on knowing full well that he would achieve nothing more, that Moriarty wanted only to wash and then go to sleep, and that he would cease the instant it became apparent that Moriarty was tired of such games. Now though he is unsure as to whether the professor is toying with him for his own amusement or whether – just maybe – he may be given another round of sex.

    He drops his gaze. “Nothing particular, whatever you’d like, sir.”

    “No, Moran.” Moriarty puts two fingers beneath Moran’s chin and tilts his head up. “Tell me _precisely_ what you would like to do.”

    Moran’s gaze rests on his now, and the look in his eyes has subtly changed. Gone is the hint of drowsiness; there is a new focus there, and his pupils are wide. “I’d like to…” He hesitates again, not wanting to say something to spoil the mood between them. “I’d like to… to put you on the bed, to hold you down – gently still, of course – and open you up with my fingers, kissing you all the while, and…”

    “And?” Moriarty is regarding him intently, as if Moran’s words are the most fascinating thing he has ever heard.

    “And…” Moran swipes his tongue over his lips. “And then when you’re fairly begging for me to take you, I’d slide my prick into you. I’d…”

    He looks away again.

    “Go on,” Moriarty coaxes gently, noticing how Moran’s breathing has become hoarser again.

    “I’d fuck you.” Moran shifts his gaze back to meet Moriarty’s, suddenly becoming bolder. “I’d fuck you in front of the mirror and make you watch yourself come undone beneath me.”

    “Hmm.” Moriarty ponders this momentarily, idly running his fingers through Moran’s hair.

    Moran watches him, wide-eyed. “Sir I didn’t mean… I meant… only if you _wanted_ to, of course.”

    The professor smiles warmly at him. “Do you think that I would ever assume that you are capable of trying to take me against my will?”

    “I just… want to be sure, that you know I’d never hurt you.”

    “And what, my dear Moran,” Moriarty asks, pressing his face closer to Moran’s, “if I _wanted_ to be hurt?”

     Moran grins again. “All right, then I’d never _harm_ you.”

    Moriarty pulls him into a kiss, rougher than before and more possessive, clamping his mouth over Moran’s for some seconds, dipping his tongue between Moran’s lips. When it is finished Moran is practically panting.

    “Go and get something to clean this off us first,” Moriarty says in a low voice in Moran’s ear, indicating the mess smeared over them from their earlier exertions. “Then we shall see about making your desires reality.”

    Moran does not immediately withdraw though to fetch the water and a cloth to wash them. “Professor, are you…? Really?”

    “Really.”

    Moran regards him for a moment longer, analysing the sincerity of this, before he leaves to fetch the water.


	2. Chapter 2

   When Moran returns Moriarty has seated himself on the edge of bed and is regarding himself in the mirror.

    “It’d be easier if you took the rest of your clothes off,” Moran suggests, setting down the bowl of hot water. He stands before Moriarty, interposing himself between the professor and the mirror. “May I?” he asks, looking right into Moriarty’s eyes.

    “You may.”

    Moran deftly unbuttons Moriarty’s shirt and slides the garment off, tossing it onto the nearby chair. He pulls off Moriarty’s undershirt over his head, throwing this after the shirt, so that Moriarty now sits before him as naked as Moran. “There, that’s better.” He dips the washcloth into the warm, slightly soapy water, wrings out the excess and then gently applies it to Moriarty’s abdomen, carefully wiping him clean; rinsing the cloth out, reapplying it to the professor’s thighs, between his legs, all of this done with tenderness and concern. “You all right?” he asks as he rinses the cloth out again.

    “Perfectly fine.” A smile flickers across Moriarty’s face, yet it is so brief and just a tad too tight. This gradual shift in the balance of power between them makes Moriarty nervous, Moran knows that, but then it makes him nervous too – though generally dominant with most of his past partners, Moran is far more used to and far more comfortable with submitting to Moriarty, as a rule, and though both of them enjoy turning things around from time to time still it seems highly unnatural for it to be so.

    Moran takes far less care about wiping himself down, Moriarty notes, being thorough in removing the _unpleasantness_ but quicker and far rougher than his handling of the professor. He drops the cloth into the bowl then with a plop, where it half-floats like some strange aquatic animal, and sets the bowl aside for later removal.

    “Professor.” Moving back to stand before Moriarty. “If you want me to stop at any time-”

    Moriarty gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “You don’t need to tell me this _every time_.”

    “I just want you to know… that you’re still in charge.” Moran slowly drops to his knees before the professor, putting his hands on Moriarty’s thighs, running them down to his knees, gently pushing the professor’s legs a little wider apart.

    Moriarty watches him intently, unwittingly holding his breath for a moment as Moran caresses back up his thighs with his large, strong, slightly calloused hands.

    “Moran, what are you…?”

    “It’s all right.” Moran leans forward and takes the head of Moriarty’s prick into his mouth.

    “ _Sebastian_ ,” Moriarty hisses. He feels more tender than usual, perhaps because this is so soon after penetrating Moran and climaxing inside him, not sore precisely but far more keenly aware of these new sensations around his cock, of the warmth and wetness of Moran’s mouth as he draws him in inch by inch, but such softness too. Though Moran can skilfully apply just the tiniest bit of pressure with his teeth at times to make things… _interesting_ , now he is only soft and gentle and there is just the slow, languid sucking as he carefully begins to coax the professor back into a state of arousal.

    Moran, already half-hard when he began this, is growing more and more aroused himself by the second. Yet still he observes all of Moriarty’s reactions, the conscious and unconscious ones, mindful of the professor’s needs, remembering that Moriarty is very different in his attractions and his attitudes and aware that sometimes such intense stimulation can be too much for him to bear at once.

    Keeping his gaze locked to Moriarty’s he withdraws again until once more only the head of Moriarty’s prick is between his lips, so he can gently lick away the saltiness that beads at its opening, tonguing at it until Moriarty fists his hands into the crumpled sheets either side of him and throws back his head. It is all he can do to keep from thrusting into Moran’s mouth, and Moran would let him; Moran would gladly bring him to climax like this and let Moriarty spend down his throat, foregoing their intended activities.

    “Moran, Moran, stop,” he says breathlessly. “Stop, now.”

    Moran ceases at once, letting Moriarty’s stiff length slip from between his lips but keeping his head down, so that if he were so inclined he could kiss the tip of the professor’s cock again without effort.

    “’s’ all right, sir.” He strokes Moriarty’s thighs again, the surety and firmness of his touch helping to ground the professor.

    “I don’t wish to come like that, not tonight.” Moriarty leans forward a little and strokes Moran’s hair. “I want…”

    Moran rubs his bearded cheek against the professor’s inner thigh and tilts his head to look up at Moriarty impishly. “Mm?”

   Moriarty clears his throat slightly. “I want to come with you inside me this time.”

    Moran is atop him in a bound, pushing him back onto the bed. Pausing there though to ask again, “You’re sure?”

    Moriarty looks up at him and grins broadly. “Yes.”

    Moran answers this with a grin of his own before bobbing his head down to kiss the professor’s neck, moving down, peppering his chest, along his collarbones, his shoulders with light kisses as he slides around behind Moriarty. Gently but firmly he rolls the professor onto his side, facing the mirror, and spoons around him.

    “James,” he murmurs between kisses, pressing them to the back of Moriarty’s neck and shoulders. “James, James, my sweet James.”

    There is still enough oil left in the bottle for his needs and, lying behind the professor, kissing along his shoulder-blades, he uses it to slick his fingers before carefully working the first finger inside Moriarty.

    The professor goes very still, very quiet, and Moran is concerned enough by this to look up sharply, to regard Moriarty’s reflection over his shoulder. But the professor looks, well, engrossed in this, in the sensation of Moran’s finger – _fingers_ now – slipping into him. He bites at his lip, worrying it between his teeth, and gasps as Moran works his way deeper inside him, opening him up, easing past normally tense muscles.

    They have done this before but still few enough times for it to seem novel, and still a bit strange, as if the natural order of things has been thrown on its head.

    “Moran, Moran, I…” Moriarty’s breath hitches as Moran crooks his finger and brushes a particularly sensitive spot. “ _Sebastian!_ ”

    “James, my James,” Moran croons to him still as he withdraws his fingers; as he slicks his prick with oil and presses it into his lover, into the heat and tension. “Shhh, shhh, it’s all right, it’s all right James,” he soothes as Moriarty emits a sharp cry, though one of pleasure more than pain. He stills himself save for nuzzling and kissing the back of the professor’s neck, giving Moriarty time to reacquaint himself with these sensations before upping the internal stimulation. The professor’s eyes, he notes in the mirror, are tightly closed.

    Thrusting into him now, sliding over him, one leg draped over Moriarty’s, one arm wrapped around his body from behind. He reaches down with that hand to take the professor’s cock and slowly pump it in time with his thrusts, knowing Moriarty needs more than just the sensations produced by having Moran’s prick in him to climax. He knows though it may not be pain precisely, there must be some discomfort – a sense of fullness and of being stretched – and he wants to keep this to a minimum and provide him with as much pleasure as possible to counter any less pleasant feelings.

    Moriarty opens his eyes finally and looks at their reflection.

    “You look… very beautiful like this,” he says. He glances back over his shoulder momentarily. “Like some feral beast.”

    Moran, between his panting gasps as he thrusts, chuckles. “A feral cat?”

    “My wild tiger.” Moriarty twists his neck around, almost painfully so, tilting his head up, demanding a kiss.

    Moran shifts position slightly to oblige him with a rough clashing of lips and teeth and tongues, yet not without tenderness there. “Yes sir,” he says. “Your tiger, all yours, always yours.”

    Moriarty, smiling, straightens again, regarding them both in the mirror once more. Watching himself like this is oddly stimulating, witnessing his own degradation at Moran’s hands in an act he would not so much as even contemplate never mind carry through with any other man. When Moran changes the angle of his thrusts very slightly Moriarty whimpers – actually _whimpers_ – at the pleasure this new angle induces inside him, as it seems to make electric jolts of pleasurable sensation shoot through him from deep within him, up his spine, along his limbs, right to the tips of his fingers and toes.

    Moran’s thrusting soon becomes more erratic though, his rhythm and his hand on the professor’s cock feeling slightly less sure. A different sort of pleasure courses through him, building and building, electric too in its way but for him it is more perhaps a sense of building pressure that he can barely contain any longer. Still kissing the back of Moriarty’s neck he breathes his name again. “ _James_ ,” he says. “James, I can’t hold on any more, I need to… I need to come.” Meeting the professor’s gaze in the reflection, receiving the most cursory of nods that tells him ‘ _It’s all right_.’

    Two more thrusts and Moran goes still and tense behind him, his chin on the professor’s shoulder, nipping at Moriarty’s earlobe as he comes. His eyes are closed as he reaches orgasm this time around. As he spends inside Moriarty the professor winces and grunts at the sensation, feeling Moran’s release spilling into him (though perhaps he merely imagines that – still, imagination can be a powerful thing).

    “James, James, James.” It seems to be all Moran can say, a litany murmured against Moriarty’s neck, uttered between kisses against Moriarty’s sweat-soaked skin in the seconds after his orgasm. He comes to his senses quickly though, enough to resume stroking Moriarty’s length.

    Moriarty arches against him, thrusting into Moran’s hand, so perilously close to release himself but needing just that bit more stimulation. Moran gives it to him, drawing his hand from root to tip, pumping him until Moriarty tenses and writhes under him.

    “Open your eyes,” Moran instructs when the professor closes them again. “I want you to see yourself.”

    And Moriarty does, just for a second or two, long enough to see the look of something that appears almost to be anguish flicker across his features as he begins to spend, before he twists his face sideways and presses it into the sheets as his cock finishes its pulsing in Moran’s hand. Anything more of the sight of him totally losing his control and composure with Moran still inside him is too much to bear, far too undignified for him to confront face to face any longer, no matter how much deep down the sight excites him.

    “James?” Moran holds him awhile, not wanting to disturb him too soon. Moriarty has made no further sound after his strangled cry of release though and he needs to be sure that the professor is all right. “Professor?”

    “I’m all right.” Moriarty moves at last to glance over his shoulder. “I’m all right, Moran.” He twists around in Moran’s hold, so that they may lie face to face. “I fear we have made rather a mess of ourselves again,” he says with a rueful smile. “And of the sheets.”

   “’s fine,” Moran says, “I’ll run us a bath in a few minutes, and I’ll change the sheets.” He cups the professor’s face with one hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Moriarty’s cheek.

    Moriarty turns his face, presses a kiss to Moran’s palm. “Do I _still_ frighten you, my wild tiger?” he asks.

    “Of course.” Moran grins crookedly at him. “Always.” He laughs as he places a kiss on the tip of Moriarty’s nose. “I reckon you’d have killed me if I’d hurt you too much then.”

    “Perhaps I might have.” Moriarty allows his eyes to slip closed, feeling that post-coital drowsiness that had crept over Moran earlier steal over him now.

    Moran shifts up slightly to kiss his forehead. Resisting the urge to snuggle up with Moriarty and fall asleep in his arms, he says, “You rest a minute or two, Professor, I’ll go run the bath.” As tempting as the idea of falling asleep with him immediately is, he knows the professor will wake up irritable if he is not cleaned up properly.

    “Mm, that would be nice, thank you Moran.” Moriarty almost regrets the loss of contact when Moran withdraws from him, even though it is necessary. After two rounds of sex and being penetrated himself this time he most certainly needs a thorough wash.

  _‘What would my students make of_ this _?’_ he muses to himself as he drifts somewhere between wakefulness and sleep – not merely Professor Moriarty engaged in coitus with another man but playing the receptive partner. No doubt it is his post-orgasmic haze causing him to let his guard down a touch, but he has to admit that as much as them witnessing it would be tantamount to professional and social suicide, the idea of so thoroughly scandalising them is not entirely without its appeal. Playing the staid, upright, respectful member of the community can be really quite tiresome at times. Sometimes, he thinks, he would quite like to simply throw all caution to the wind and show his true self to the world. He cannot, and will not, he knows that; he will continue to reserve that side of himself for Moran alone. There _is_ certainly much pleasure to be gained too in doing so, not only in their private, intimate acts themselves but in making a mockery of society and all its laws and rules by revelling in their _depravity_ with his closest and most trusted companion, but he can understand why not infrequently Moran has railed against society and its damnable restrictions.

    “Bath’s ready, sir.”

    “Already?” It seems only mere seconds since Moran departed. Sleepily Moriarty holds out his arms, beckoning to Moran like a child asking to be picked up by its mother.

    Moran goes to him, smiling fondly as he draws the professor to his feet, embracing him for a moment.

    “You are good to me,” Moriarty tells him, resting his chin on Moran’s shoulder. “Whatever would I do without you?”

    “Lead a very boring life.”

    Moriarty laughs at the frankness of this response. “Yes,” he says, straightening up. He slips his hand into Moran’s. “Indeed, I suspect I would.” And with that, hand in hand, the pair withdraw from the bedroom to go and take their bath.


End file.
